


After the Telethon (1952)

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Angst, Forehead Touching, Holding Hands, Love, M/M, Partnership, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slurs, Understanding, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 05:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, America's hottest comedy team, appear on the Olympic Telethon. They are asked to do 10 minutes. After 30 minutes, it seems that one of the boys could keep going all night.





	1. Overacting

**Author's Note:**

> In Michael J. Hayde's book 'Side By Side', he states that after Dean and Jerry's telethon appearance, the latter had to be carried offstage. That inspired this.

The station break comes – thank God – and the crowd is still practically hysterical. Jerry, never one to heed a stagehand’s warning, goes careering across the stage, yapping like a dog, barking like a seal, cawing like a parrot; every sound, every move, every jerk of his gangly limbs sends fresh waves of shrieking laughter through the audience. Bob stands apart, mouth agape. The only parts of him still capable of movement are his eyes, which twitch erratically in their feeble attempt to follow the Idiot’s path of comic destruction. Bing, meanwhile, is ensconced backstage.

_Smart man_, Bob thinks.

Dean steps forward. To the audience - if they even see him anymore - he is nonchalant, unaffected. He strolls with his hands in his pockets and an indulgent smile on his lips. Then, he glances at Dick. He offers an almost imperceptible nod to the bandleader, who immediately falls in step. As Jerry lurches in front of a camera, he is seized. They take hold of his arms, his partner coaxing and pulling gently, Dick a little more forceful. Jerry makes a show of trying to pull away, which of course delights the crowd.

“Don’t do this, Rocky!” he yells in a gruff voice, one eye squinting, his body hunched. “Don’t make me hurt ya, Rocky!”

Dick is laughing even as he tries to pull Jerry offstage, but Dean’s smile does not reach his eyes.

“You’re overacting, Jer,” he says.

There is a shift, so slight Dean knows the audience has not felt it. Maybe even Dick is unaware. Jerry continues to buck and writhe and make for freedom, but Dean can feel the difference; he is only playing now, playing to the cameras, the crew, the audience, and he has let Dean in on the game. They move together, exaggerating the struggle, until Dean and Dick - the former knowing the bit has run its course, the latter following once again that invisible signal - lift Jerry swiftly into the air and carry him away, even as he cries in apparent distress.

They depart to frantic cheers and clapping, screams for an encore, but they do not return. Once safely backstage, Jerry leaps from their arms and goes tearing up and down the corridor. The boys in the orchestra are red-faced, tears streaming down their cheeks. Dick looks at Dean with a _Can you believe this kid?_ expression. Dean's heart thuds, frighteningly loud, and he worries that if he speaks his voice will shake. So he only shrugs, glancing over his shoulder.

Bing has reappeared. With a trepidation too convincing to be feigned, he asks, “Is it over?”


	2. Alone with Him

“Five minutes,” Dean says. “Five minutes they want us to do, and you go off like that?”

“Ten minutes, bubbe.”

“Don’t.” Dean looks at him. “Don’t do that now. I wanna talk.” He allows himself a small smile. “Serially.”

Jerry beams. “Sure, Paul. Serially.”

They are backstage. The telethon marches on: some songs, some laughter, some banter between hosts and girls taking pledges. Dick has stepped out with the musicians to make sure that everything is packed away, ready for their next show. He seemed reluctant to leave Dean and Jerry alone, hesitating in the doorway, watching as Jerry’s giddiness abated, tapering off to the typical flicking of cigarette ashes into Dean’s hair.

Now they stand smoking, talking somewhat softly in the dimly lit corridor. On the one side, beyond the curtain, lies the stage, and on the other, running the length of the wall, is a tall wooden radiator cover, which Dean now leans against, thinking. Jerry’s eyes still sparkle with the thrill of it all, but he’s promised to be a good boy, and Dean trusts him. Once he finished the lap of the backstage racetrack, he let Dean take hold of his wrist and direct him out of harm’s way. Once he is completely calm, Dean will lead him out into the fresh air.

For now, though, it’s nice to be alone with him.

Dean sighs, swipes a hand across his face. He wants to talk – has so much he wants to say – but once he sets his mind to it, the words will never come. In his head, he forms perfect sentences, punctuated well and grammatically correct. Then the doubt kicks in; he hears his dialect choking him. The _deses_, _dems_ and _doses_ he’s been working to erase, and his sorely lacking vocabulary, turn what might be important, imperative words into a garbled mess. A part of him knows that much of this is his own fault. If he could just get over himself, the words would come out fine. It’s just the _fear_ of it that sets it off. They work it into routines sometimes, and it gets a laugh, but it’s rehearsals in front of live audiences that really get to Dean. Maybe they think he’s exaggerating it.

Another part of him knows – more importantly – that Jerry doesn’t care. Dean could communicate solely in mime and Jerry would understand him perfectly. When they’re onstage, Dean can touch Jerry’s arm, his back, or hold the nape of his neck, and his partner will understand exactly what needs to be done. Even offstage, these tricks work. It frightens him a little to think about it, but with Jerry, Dean doesn’t need words.

Still, he wants to speak, damn it.

“Come on,” he says. He crushes his cigarette beneath his heel and hoists himself up on to the radiator cover. It is a little higher than he anticipated; his shoes hang two feet above the floor. He looks down at his partner.

Jerry makes a show of clambering up the cover, cross-eyed in his exaggerated struggle. Dean chuckles.

“You ain’t gonna _help_ me?” he manages to pant.

“Why? You look like you’re doing pretty well to me.”

Jerry heaves himself up and thumps heavily down. He pantomimes his exhaustion, falling all over Dean, clutching his jacket, his shirt, his head.

Dean pats his back. “You’re all right.”

Jerry grins and licks Dean’s face.


	3. Partners Who Are More Than Partners

They sit close together. If someone passes through, maybe they glance up at them. Maybe they look a little longer than they should, but most people know by now. Nothing is ever said.

Dean leans his head on Jerry’s shoulder.

“You gotta warn me,” he mutters.

“Hm?”

“Next time. You gotta tell me you’re gonna go crazy like that.”

“What if I don’t know?”

“Huh?”

“Sometimes I don’t know. We work on our act enough – we know that South Pacaic bit so well, but we can always do something different with it. Sometimes I just get an idea and I wanna go after it.”

“Well, sure, I know that,” Dean says. “You gotta ad-lib, Jer, but that’s not what that was. That was…” _Fuck._ He can’t find the word. Probably the word he wants isn’t used in comic books. He can grope for it; sitting here with Jerry in the calm after the storm, he may even find it. Instead, he slips an arm around Jerry’s waist. “Well, I didn’t expect it,” he says finally, hoping Jerry will understand anyway.

“But that’s why _you’re_ there.”

“Huh?”

“Paul, look at me.”

He looks. Jerry’s eyes are intense, his jaw set. It’s hard, sometimes, to look at him directly. It’s hard for Dean, anyway. On stage is fine, and when other people are around. When they’re alone like this, though, he doesn’t quite know what to do with how those eyes can make him feel. But he tries. And to make it easier, Jerry holds his face gently.

“The only reason I did that – the only reason I ever let myself get so hot – is because I know you’re there. I know you’re gonna catch me.”

Dean thinks about this.

Jerry goes on: “Why do you think the audience is on our side? Anyone else going crazy like that, they’d get scared, want the fucker off the stage. But me? They know it’s okay, because you’re there. ‘_Dean’s_ not worried,’ they think. ‘_Dean’s_ watching him, so we’re safe.’ They can watch me because you’re watching me.” Jerry smiles and leans in close; their foreheads touch. He whispers, “And I’m watching you, too.”

For the first time in a long time – six years, maybe – Dean wonders how this must look. Gently, guiltily, almost apologetically, he takes Jerry’s hands from his face. He scoots back, still holding the younger man’s fingers, which he squeezes, before letting them drop. He looks away, pulls out a cigarette. He lights it, takes a drag, and leans against the wall, expelling a long, long line of white smoke. He closes his eyes, thinking of Jeanne, of the kids.

“That can’t be,” he says softly.

“What?” asks Jerry. There’s something in his voice – just one more fuckin’ thing Dean doesn’t have the vocabulary for – and Dean can’t look at him. 

“How can you be watchin’ me?” he says, and then before he can stop himself: “You don’t even look at me.”

Dean knows – he is rational enough to know – that there must still be noise coming from the stage. But for a moment it seems the partners are plunged into a thick, suffocating silence. If he opens his mouth now, if he takes it back, everything will be fine.

But maybe he doesn't want everything to be fine. He plays those words over again. No, it's not fine. Not at all. He prays for Jerry to explode, to shout and scream and tell him what he really thinks of him. He prays for Jerry to make a scene. _Go on_, he thinks. He deserves it.

The sounds seep back into the word, and beside him, Dean feels his partner shift. He hears the soft thud as Jerry drops from their perch. Dean thinks he might say something, but in the desolate pause that Dean’s carelessness has created, Jerry sniffs, and Dean chances a quick look.

He wishes he hadn’t. Jerry is standing, tall and stiff, fists clenched. He stares straight ahead, so that from Dean’s position only his profile is picked out in the dim backstage lighting. Dean can see tears on his cheek.

_You asshole_, he thinks. _You fucking idiot. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut?_

Some time ago, the sight of a man in tears would have been too much for Dean. He would have looked away, shuffled his feet and coughed, embarrassed for the both of them. Maybe he would have told the guy to shut up, man up, grow a pair. Maybe laughed or walked away in silent discomfort. He wonders when he stopped caring about this kind of stuff. When his parents’ well-taught lessons about how men were men, how crying was for fags and sissies, had begun to be un-taught. Or if not entirely un-taught, then at the very least challenged.

He’s seen Jerry cry a bunch. Not once has it shocked him or made him respect the kid any less. He remembers climbing off the bus in Atlantic City, seeing Jerry’s wide eyes sparkling, his face openly joyful. The kid hurried to help him with his bag, and they briefly shared a not-quite-awkward dance.

“Oh,” Dean said then. “We’ll be all right.”

_A real meet-cute_, he thinks now, though it wasn’t their first meeting.

He quickly realised how lonely the kid was, and how close to tears he could come at the drop of a hat. And not just when he was sad or scared, but when Dean would do or say something that made him happy; his eyes would fill up, and he’d throw himself at Dean’s neck, or into Dean’s arms.

From the stage come cheers, jolting Dean back to the present. _They must have announced the running total._ Whatever the case, it's for the best. He can't think about Jerry in his arms just now.

Jerry says something. It is soft, tremulous. It’s brief, too, just five words. Perhaps he hopes it will be lost beneath the nearby celebration. But Dean hears it clearly. It sends a shard of ice through his heart, so painfully real that he almost doubles over with the shock of it. He forces his back against the wall again, eyes closed, mouth a thin line, breathing harshly through his nostrils, and listens to the faltering retreat of his partner’s tap shoes.

_I’m always looking at you._

Dean hops from the perch. He drops his cigarette, crushes it, and stares at the grainy smudge, the crumpled filter. He stares at it and stares at it until his blurry vision clears and the thickness in his throat disperses. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls through the clandestine backstage darkness, where crooners kid chorus girls, dancers block last-minute run-throughs, and partners who are more than partners softly break each other’s hearts.


End file.
